The Best in Brooklyn
by ValandMarcelle
Summary: In which Spot Conlon recieves a second opinion from an unexpected source. Also published in the Musicals category under the title "Brooklyn's Finest."


**So, I've had this headcanon for about a month now, which is that Les is somehow really insightful and is the only one who will walk up to Spot Conlon and tell him exactly what he thinks. And from that headcanon came...this. I tried a different style than usual, I hope it's okay. **

**Enjoy!**

**-Marcelle**

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><p>"Whaddya think you're lookin' at, twerp?"<p>

"I'm looking at you, what do you think?"

Spot Conlon has ruled Brooklyn with a self-proclaimed iron fist for years now, and never before has he met a kid with enough nerve to speak to him with that kind of tone. None of his own boys would even dare; in fact, the only one to ever back-sass Spot and live to tell the tale is Jack Kelly, and that guy's reputation speaks volumes for itself.

Everyone else simply knows better-treat Spot Conlon like you would treat the president of the US of A. But this kid clearly hasn't gotten the memo.

He glares daggers at the boy standing in front of him, who has a bowler hat planted crookedly on his head and a stack of newspapers tucked under his arm. Spot's seen him around enough to know him-he's the brainiac's kid brother. Les, he thinks. Or something like that.

"And what makes ya think you can jus' goggle at me like that as long as ya feel like, huh?" he spats at the boy, hoping to at least get him to lower his eyes in the shame he should be feeling. But Les-or whatever his name is-merely holds his gaze, a smile beginning to spread across his features for some unfathomable reason.

Spot feels his annoyance starting to grow into something more at the sight, something almost resembling anger. What's so funny to this kid?

"I'm just tryin' to see if what they say about you is true," Les shrugs, as though his ignorance is something to be overlooked and not something to be punished. Spot wants nothing more than to teach this kid a lesson in respecting one's superiors-especially superiors that could send the Brooklyn boys on his tail with nothing more than a whistle-but is surprised to find that his own curiousity is overriding that desire.

Somehow, the boy's words have intrigued him. What exactly are the others saying about him?

"Lemme break it down for ya, kid, nice and simple. If any 'a those jerks out there says I'm a wuss, they'se is lyin' to ya. But if someone's tellin' ya I'm the king of this borough, then ya better believe everythin' they say, 'cause they know what they're talkin' about," Spot manages to control his impluse, which is to shake this kid senseless until he spills everything his knows, in favor of offering him some seasoned advice. Maybe he'll use it well and know to stay clear of the King of Brooklyn from now on.

In all honesty, Spot expects Les to be on his way after that. He anticipates short, sharp nods and scurrying feet, just like he's used to. But then, he isn't really surprised when Les merely pushes his bowler hat into a better position on his head and blinks at him a few times.

The Jacobs kid has already broken every rule Spot requires his underlings to follow, why should he stop now?

"Nah."

Finally, the kid speaks, and he only says one word, accompanied by a shake of his head. He seems to have made a decision about something, and Spot absolutely hates that he almost wants to know what it is. What about this short, practically one-sided conversation has helped Les to conclude something one way or the other?

"Whaddya mean, nah?" Spot mimics him, looking at him with utter disbelief. "Kid, you're makin' me wish I'd soaked ya the minute you walked up ta me."

"You're not as scary as everyone says you are," Les says simply, as though he's got confidence to spare, and Spot's urge to strangle him only grows stronger. His ability to strike fear into the hearts of newsies is something he takes pride in, he relishes in the sound of his name being whispered with a kind of awed reverence.

Yes, Spot Conlon is "scary". He should be feared, he should be respected. Who does this twerp think he is to believe any differently?

"Oh yeah? An' who gave you the right ta say that?" Spot retorts quickly, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow in disbelief. Les's already too-wide grins only spreads further at the sight, and he shakes his head again.

"All the boys say you're a real mean guy, but I don't think so," He determines with a laugh. Spot wants to throttle Les for merely suggesting that he isn't every bit intimidating as the others know him to be, wants to make the kid regret even opening his mouth to begin with. But he knows the entire borough of Manhattan would be after him if he even touched their little mascot, and he would be lying to say that he'd actually do it.

Soaking a kid for deliberately provoking him is one thing, but Spot isn't entirely convinced that Les means any real harm. And then he's even more frustrated with himself, because it's then that it occurs to him that maybe this boy is right. A guy as mean as Spot insists that he is would probably have punched Les into oblivion ages ago.

Dang it.

"Well that's great ta know, kid, but I really couldn't give less of a hang about what some gutta mouse like you'se thinks 'a me," Spot replies instead, turning his back slightly but still keeping the boy in his line of sight. Les merely shrugs, that stupid smile still never leaving his face.

"That's okay. I just thought you might want to know," he practically chirps. Then he tips his bowler hat-of all the things in the world, he tips his hat-and begins to stroll away, humming some kind of tune as he makes his way back down the street.

As soon as he had come, Les is gone, and Spot can't help his eyes from following the small form as he disappears.

The whole encounter has left him utterly bewildered, to say the least, a feeling that is nothing less than alien to him. He isn't sure what it is about that kid that confuses him so much, but he can't seem to let go of one faint idea. Les isn't afraid to speak his thoughts the moment they enter his head, and it is in that way that he reminds Spot of himself. He can't say if this is good or bad.

Spot has never dealt with a kid like Les, at least not in his own small newsie family, but he still doesn't think he's seen the last of him. He knows that, just as he knows one last thing-he's doing something wrong if a twerp like Les doesn't think Spot Conlon is intimdating.

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><p><strong>Don't forget to review! Prompts and suggestions very much appreciated as well! Thanks for reading! <strong>


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